The Darkest Hours
by I am hurricane
Summary: "Is this the part where you tell me to be careful?" she teases in a whisper. Stiles shakes his head and reaches out to cup her cheek, "I love you," he says, before leaning in to kiss her achingly slow. He pulls away abruptly and juts his chin toward the rows of railway benches. "Now," he whispers, gruffly. "Go be a badass."
1. The Waiting Room

**Author's Note: I love teen wolf but I am unfortunately dreading the season six spoilers regarding stydia. So this is my season 6 STALIA AU. This is a stand-alone story and doesn't fit into my To Save a Life Universe. Warning! contains spoilers and speculation for season six. No copyright infringement intended.**

* * *

The clock is winding down. The Wild Hunt is coming for him. And Stiles has done everything he could think of to stop it. He's left his dad and his friends clues for when they come looking. Because even if they've forgotten him, he has to believe that somehow they will know to come looking for him. So right now he has a choice. He can sit in a circle of mountain ash and try to fight the inevitable or he can say goodbye to the people he loves. Stiles grabs his keys and starts for his Jeep. _He's never been good at sitting still, anyway._

The whole town didn't forget him all at once. It's not like he woke up and everything was changed, it was subtle at first. It started with his school I.D. card not working, and coach forgetting his name in class. But things like that were fairly common. Then Scott started to forget when they had plans to hangout, and his phone got inexplicably disconnected. When he called his service provider about it they had no record of him…ever. Stiles was frustrated but chalked it up to a computer glitch.

Then Malia looked at him warily as she passed him in the hallway, like she didn't even know him anymore. _And that stung_. Even though they were broken up it wasn't like they weren't friends—it wasn't like he didn't still _care_. She hadn't looked at him like that since the day they found her in the woods. Back then her eyes had been wild with fear, it had taken him almost an hour before she would let him close enough to wrap her up in his sweater. Even then she'd snapped and snarled at him.

It made him ache for the way she used to look at him. For the warmth that used linger in those gorgeous eyes for him. He missed the way she always gravitated into his space. Everyone else she always gave a wide birth to. But him…she never had any concept of personal space when it came to him. He had always read that as trust _._ And he missed that. Missed _her_.

He tried to talk to her about it. To ask her what he'd done. But she just brushed past him and moved down the hall. Things started to go downhill fast after that. He couldn't log into his computer, his bank card was declined, none of the students recognised him and teachers kept asking him for his name.

He had run to Scott had grabbed him and shook him. He had tried to convince him that he knew him better than anyone. That he was his best friend. But Scott just stared at him confused and a little sympathetic. And he stood there and watched as Stiles was escorted out of school, like some crazy person.

His driver's license…student file…birth certificate had all vanished into thin air, there was no records—no evidence of him ever having existed. After that his face started disappearing from pictures. That's when he rushed to his dad for help—but even his dad didn't even recognize him. _He had no idea who he was._

That's when the panic attack started. Lydia found him and managed to calm him down. She was the only one who still remembered him. This last week she has been the one that has kept him sane. She helped him investigate and figure out what was happening, that the Wild Hunt that was after him. He had saved her life a few months ago and now she was determined to save him. They had scoured for information. Turned over every rock for something, anything. Any way to hold them off. But there was no escaping the Wild Hunt. Lydia swore that she wouldn't stop trying…that she wouldn't give up.

She had left him in a circle of mountain ash and begged him to stay there, she promised she would find a way to save him. She was at the library now running down another lead. But Stiles knew that fighting the wild hunt was like fighting air, there was no point. And if he only had a few hours left then there were people he needed to see…things he needed to say.

He finds Melissa first. She's working a double shift at the hospital. He watches as she strides through the emergency ward with purpose. Always a consummate professional, carrying out her duties with compassion, resilience, and a no-nonsense attitude. She probably the strongest and most capable adult he's ever known.

As a single mom she's always had more than enough on her own plate, but she was always there for him. After his mom died, she was the one who sowed his Halloween costumes, and started hemming his jeans. She fussed with his hair when it got too long, and generally mothered him. And no matter how hard times were at the McCall house, there was always a chair for him at their dinner table. When he was younger and his dad was working, Melissa used to drive him to his lacrosse games. She would sit in the stands and take embarrassing pictures of him and Scott, and she would cheer for them, even if all they did was ride the bench.

And now she doesn't even remember his name. Like the rest of Beacon Hills she has no idea that he even existed. But he would never forget all the things she had done for him. And somehow he needed to tell her that.

Stiles snuck into the gift shop and stole a bouquet of lilies, right from under the clerk's nose. If he was cursed with being 'forgettable' then he might as well have a little fun with it while he can. He jots down a quick note on the card and walks up to the Nurse's desk. Melissa has her head down as she leafs through a chart. She holds up her finger without looking up and says,

"Young man, we're pretty slammed tonight. I'm sorry but it's probably going to be a long…" she lifts her head. "…wait." She gives him a curious once over. "I'm sorry but visiting hours are over. Would you like to leave those flowers here? I can make sure they are brought to the right room."

Stiles rocks back on his heels. "Actually, they're for you." Melissa's cheeks flush and her eyes widen slightly, she drops her pen and for the first time she gives him her undivided attention. Stiles rubs the back of his neck. "You probably don't remember this but—a long time ago I was at the hospital and my mom…" Stiles swallows back the tears and ducks his head. "…s-she—uh she couldn't be here with me…but you promised her that you'd stay with me. You told her that I'd never be alone. And you held my hand until my dad could get to the hospital." Stiles whispers.

Melissa's eyes soften on him. Stiles lifts his head, "I just uh—I wanted to say thanks for taking care of Me." he says sincerely as he holds out the lilies to her. Unshed tears shimmer in Melissa's eyes. As she takes the flowers from him, she reaches out and squeezes his hand.

"Well…I…y-you're welcome." She whispers, her voice unsteady, but sincere. The warmth of her hand on top of his in this moment is more comfort than he's had in days. It gives him a tiny flicker of hope that for a moment dispels the constant dread that twists in his stomach. He smiles at her weakly and drops his hand before he's temped to pull her into a fierce hug. He gives her one last glance, before he turns away from the desk. He shoves his hands in his pockets and walks away.

He wants to tell her the whole truth. That what he's really trying to thank her for is being there with him the night his mom died. _She never let go of his hand._ When his world was falling apart in that waiting room, it was her hand squeezing his, and her words whispered in his ear that held him together. He's thanking her for more than being just his best friend's mom…for being more than just a caring adult. He's thanking her for loving him. Stiles chokes down tears as he walks away.

Melissa sits down on the edge of her chair and watches as the young man walks away. _Lilies are her favorite._ She had been a nurse for over fourteen years and no one had ever brought her flowers before. And there was just something so hauntingly familiar about those expressive brown eyes of his. She plucked the card from the flowers and read it. _Thanks for not letting go._

There's a twinge of something in her chest. She lifts her eyes to look at him once more. But he's already gone.


	2. Whenever You Call

He isn't surprised to find his dad's car still at the sheriff's station. It's almost 11:00 am and there's only two people left in the building. Stiles waits until the deputy on desk duty goes for a smoke break before he walks up to the information desk and hits the bell. His dad pokes his head out of his office and saunters over to the desk, looking a little perplexed as to why a teenager is at the Sheriff's station so late.

He raises his eyebrow at him quizzically. "Everything alright, son?" he asks concerned. Stiles licks his lips. He had thought about all the things he wanted to tell him on the way here. But right now he can't get them past his throat. His dad raises an eyebrow and waits for him to say something. His eyes lock onto the recruitment poster on the wall, over his dad's shoulder. And he spits out the first thing that jumps into his head.

"Yeah, I was wondering if I could fill out an application for the Sheriff's Department Training Program." He blurts out.

His dad's looks a bit relieved by this, then he smiles crookedly at him. "Do you make it a habit of filling out applications this late at night?" he asks him.

Stiles tries to look nonchalant as he shrugs. "I just got off work…and I've been thinking about it for a long time." He realizes as he says it that he isn't stretching the truth this time. _He wants to be a cop._

The Sheriff must read his sincerity, because he nods at him and tugs open a desk drawer. He pulls out a clipboard and a pen and hands it to him.

"Sure, kid. Leave it on the desk when you're done. I'll have my deputy file It." he tells him. He starts to turn back toward his office, and Stiles panics. He doesn't want this to be the last words he says to his dad.

"Um...did you ever speak at Beacon Hills Elementary for career day?" Stiles asks, hoping to bait him into conversation.

The sheriff turns back to him and cocks his head to the side. "Yeah, I go every year." He replies raising an eyebrow. "Why?"

"You look familiar…and there was this deputy who used to talk to my class. He uh…he gave me some good advice about this kid that was bullying me. It helped me out a lot."

A smirk appears on the sheriff's weathered face and he shifts on his feet. "Sounds, like he was a good deputy."

"He was the best." Stiles agrees, his eyes darting down to the clipboard in his hands. "He didn't have to but he used to check in on me. We'd talk baseball, and he'd let me play around with siren in his patrol car and wear his hat." he says, with a thick voice. Bringing up the pen Stiles started filling out the boxes on the form. "I—uh I was in a really rough place and he promised me that if I ever needed help that he would be there for me."

"He took a personal interest in you." The sheriff says, with understanding in his eyes. Stiles lifts his head and looks him in the eye.

"He's the reason I'm here."

 _There is no one he respects more._

 _No one he loves more_

A phone rings from somewhere deeper in the Sheriff's station. His dad looks away from him and toward his office.

"Excuse me for a minute…" he says, as he strides across the room and disappears through his office door.

Stiles wants to follow after him. To drop down on the couch in his dad's office and wait for him to be finished work like any other night. He wants to cruise around in the patrol car with him and just…talk. Just one more time. He still has questions. So many things he wants to ask him about…like about which college to pick…and how to fix things with Malia.

But he knows if he tells him the truth right now his dad will think he's crazy and lock him in a cell or personally deliver him to Eichen House. And he really doesn't want that to be the last thing he remembers about his dad.

Stiles pauses his pen above the section of the form that requires his legal name and signature. He looks up and sees his dad still on the phone in his office. Stiles fills in the box with his first name, something he hasn't willingly written in years. But everything regarding him just disappears anyway…so it's not like anyone will ever know. And if for just a moment the application is real in his hands, and that's enough for him. He sets the clipboard down on the deputy's desk and reaches into his pocket for his keys.

Stiles turns for the door. He'd better leave now before he tells the sheriff something stupid…like the truth. Then his thumb bumps against something familiar on his keyschain. Looking down into his hand, Stiles finds the old antique police whistle that his dad had given him years ago. It was a British pipe-styled whistle with faded stamping wrapped around the body of it. His dad loved history, and for as long as he could remember their house had always been filled with weathered books and dusty old relics.

Stiles ran his thumb along the whistle as he remembered the day his dad had given it to him. He was ten and it had only been a few months after his mom had died. Stiles had to do a report in front of the whole class and the anxiety had triggered a panic attack. Stiles couldn't calm himself down and he nearly passed out.

Stiles had been hold up on the floor of the principal's office trying to keep it together, when his dad burst through the door.

 _"_ _D-Dad!"_ he had gasped helplessly. _"I—I ca-can't brea—"_

His dad sunk down on the floor beside him and wrapped his arm tight around him.

 _"_ _Hey—hey it's O.K. I've gotcha, buddy…"_ his dad murmured. _"Slow it down, Stiles…just breathe like we practiced."_

Stiles clawed for breath, he could feel his heartbeat throbbing in every nerve ending. His heart was beating too fast but it was like his mind was paralyzed, stuck on an endless loop of a single terrifying thought. Stiles wasn't getting enough air…his vision was blurring if he didn't calm down soon he was going to pass out. His fingers bit into his dad's arm as he clung onto him.

 _"…_ _Mm...s-scared…"_ the ten year-old whimpered.

 _"_ _I know…I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere, O.K?"_ he soothed, rubbing his back. Stiles gasped, sucking in a single gulp of air. _"That's it…that's it…"_ his dad praised. His dad jostled him as he reached into his jacket pocket for something. His dad grabbed his hand and pressed a small mental tube into it. _"Here, I've got something for you."_

Stiles uncurls his fingers and inspects the small mental thing. His shoulders heaving as he sucks in another breath.

 _"_ _W-wha…is…it?"_

 _"_ _It's an old police whistle."_ his dad explained.

 _"_ _Y-you…want…me…to…be…a traffic cop?"_ Stiles manages to sputter out. His dad chuckled and squeezed his shoulder.

 _"_ _No. That's not what it was for. At least uh… not at first. Cops used to have to walk their beats alone. And this was back before radios and patrol cars. So if a cop needed back-up he'd signal with his whistle. And that's how the other cops would find him."_ his dad took the leather lanyard that dangled from the whistle and wrapped it around Stiles' hand, so he wouldn't drop it as his shoulders shook. " _I'm your back-up, Stiles. If you need help…I'm gonna be there. Always."_

Stiles looked to his dad, and took another shaky breath, tears welling up in his eyes. Stiles closed his fist around the whistle and clenched it tight giving his dad a nod of understanding. He sat up a little straighter against the wall, and took in another breath…starting to feel a little more control.

 _"_ _You should test it out."_ His dad suggested. Stiles raised an eyebrow comically.

 _"_ _W-We're…in…the principal's o-office."_ he protested. His breathing rapidly improving.

His dad grinned and shrugged his shoulder at him. _"When has that ever stopped you?"_ Stiles rolled his eyes, brought the whistle to his lips, and puffed into it. It let out a pitiful little sound on an off key note, much like a tea kettle. Stiles tried again and wrung a stronger strangled note from it. He kept trying until it let out a long clear blast. When he pulled it away from his mouth his heart wasn't racing as hard anymore and he could breathe a little easier. He slumped back against his dad's shoulder, and his dad ruffled a hand through his hair. _"We're gonna be O.K., kid…"_ his dad promised. _"…we're gonna be O.K."_

Stiles stared down at the worn brass whistle on his key-chain. He shot a glance toward his dad's office. His dad was cradling the phone in one hand and writing something down on a notepad. Stiles hesitates for a few seconds, before he jams his thumb into the key-ring and pries it apart to work the whistle free. When it comes loose he turns it over in his hand for a few seconds. His eyes cut to the office once more where he sees his dad hanging up the phone. Stiles swallows thickly and sets the whistle down reverently on the desk beside his application form.

Stiles sniffs and brushes at his nose. "You…uh…you never let me down, Dad." he whispers, softly as he drops his hand. "Not once." Hearing his dad's footsteps Stiles turns and heads for the door.

"Hey, kid, you never told me your name." he dad calls after him. Stiles freezes in the doorway and clenches his eyes closed for a second.

"It's uh… it's all written down there." Stiles tells him without looking back. "You uh...you take care of yourself, Sheriff." he says, as he pushes his way through door.

The sheriff stares after the young man and scratches at the back of his neck. Something felt off about that kid, he just couldn't put his finger on what it was. He watches the kid climb into his Jeep and drive off. The sheriff turns their conversation over in his mind. He grabs the clipboard off the desk, but stops when he notices something glinting under the florescent lights. The sheriff Stilinski tentatively reaches out and picks up the small metal tube. He smiles in wonder as he brushes his thumb along the policeman's whistle. _Claudia had given him one just like it when he had been elected sheriff. He hadn't seen his in years…but he couldn't remember why…and this one looked just like his._

The sheriff clears his throat, and looks down at clipboard and begins reading the boy's answers. The sheriff's breath catches in his throat and the whistle drops from his hand, and rolls across the carpet. The kid had written out Sheriff Stilinski's address…home phone number…and written out an incredibly rare nearly unpronounceable first name. _His dead father-in-law's first name._

"PARISH! GET IN HERE!" Stilinski bellows.


	3. One Good Thing

When you're having a panic attack, they tell you that you're supposed to focus on one good thing. Stiles leans forward, gripping the steering wheel with shaky hands, as he struggles to breathe. His heart is pounding so heavy in his chest that he can barely move. He screws his eyes up tight, and clings to a single good thought. And that's what anchors him. Stiles gasps in relief and falls back against his seat, sucking in deep shaky breaths.

He stays slumped in his seat until his heart-rate evens out. Then he sits forward and blinks open his eyes. He's parked just outside the high school, and the only other car parked in the lot is Malia's. She often comes here to run the track at night. Stiles flexes his fingers on the wheel to reassure himself, then climbs out of the Jeep.

The high school is dark and hollow tonight, and the only lights on the property are coming from the floodlights on the field. Stiles trudges his way across the lawn and heads toward them.

He spots her near the far end of the track. Stiles stops just out of her sight and leans against a railing on the bleachers. He can't help smiling as he watches her round the track. Malia is never more confident than when she's doing something physical. She moves with such a fluid and animal grace, that he can't help but envy.

He feels a little pang in his chest. As he thinks of all the times she's showed up at his door after a run, with bright eyes and flushed cheeks. She was always so light on her feet and playful after a run, almost giddy. And her enthusiasm was contagious. He misses that. Misses how she would just show up at his door, or climb in through his window. How she'd just grab him and kiss him because she was happy and she wanted to share it.

Stiles swallows down a lump in his throat. And now she doesn't remember any of it. There's a sinking in his chest as he realizes something.

He's not her first kiss anymore…he's not her first boyfriend…not her first date…not her first time…somebody else gets to be that for her now.

And that hurts like hell. But what's worse is knowing how they left things. At least with everyone else, he knows that they knew how he felt about them. But he'd pushed Malia away, and made her doubt his feelings.

And even when they had started talking again, a lot had been left uncertain between them. They still hadn't talked about their breakup or how they felt about each other. Stiles wanted to, but he didn't want to make things worse between them. But he should have tried. He should have apologized. He should have made sure she knew how he felt - she deserved that much form him.

But honestly, the way he felt about her kind of scared the hell out of him. The only girl he had ever had serious feeling for before Malia, barely knew he existed. And there is a certain degree of security that came with that. Even if he was hopeful, he always sort of always knew what to expect from Lydia.

But Malia was different, she was in it with him, and that meant that now he had something to lose. Everything with them happened sort of fast and out of order. And he didn't fall in love with her all at once, his feelings for her sort of crept up on him. But when he did fall – he fell hard. He fell for the understanding in her eyes, for the way she kissed without holding back, for the way she smiled at him when they were alone, he fell for the gentleness and warmth that only he got to see. Having someone care about him the way Malia did it made him feel safe in a way nothing ever had before. But it also scared him to know that he could lose that. Lose her.

His eyes follow her with a deep longing. He can't take that he made her doubt him like that. If he could make one thing right – it would be this. There's so much he wants to say to her but even if he did, she wouldn't remember it in the morning. With one final look, he turns away. At least he got to see her one last time.

"What's wrong with you?" an impatient voice demands from behind him. Startled, Stiles spins around to find Malia stopped on the track, staring at him expectantly. He can't help letting out a huff of laughter at her directness.

"What makes you think something's wrong with me?" he asks with a smirk. Her eyes rake over him warily, before flitting back to his eyes.

"Your heart's beating too fast." she accuses.

Stiles rubs at his brow, "Yeah, sometimes I get these panic attacks-"

Her eyes widen. "Are you having one now?"

"No. Not exactly…"

Malia wrinkles her nose in confusion. "Well, then pick somewhere else to skulk. You're distracting me."

Stiles chuckles and rubs at the back of his neck. "Actually, I kind of need to talk to you."

Malia cocks an eyebrow. "About what?" she asks as she begins stretching her calf muscle.

Stiles ducks his head, "I um—I owe you an apology."

Malia snorts. "We've never met."

Stiles clears his throat and meets her eyes. "You'd be surprised..."

Malia suddenly stops stretching and blows out a breath. "O.K. We're done here." she says as she moves off the track. She quickly shoulders her backpack and starts walking briskly past him.

Stiles shoves his hands in his pockets and looks down, as she walks away.

"Your dad calls you, Spitfire." he blurts out, and Malia stops in her tracks. "But uh…I'm pretty sure you hate the nickname." he says sheepishly, his foot kicking at the dirt. "I tried to call you it once and you almost broke my thumb." He casts a sideways glance at her, and notices that she's half turned toward him, her posture still wary. "You're always cold but you can never sleep unless the windows are open." He clears his throat and looks down. "Crowds make you nervous. You like salt on cantaloupe. You hate wearing shoes. You cheat at cards. You said you liked the Star Wars movies but I could tell that you didn't. The backs of your knees are ticklish. You have an apple-shaped birthmark on the small of your back." His eyes meet hers across the field, and a rueful smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "You talk in your sleep."

Malia is eerily still for a long moment. Then without warning she strides toward him. Stiles holds his ground, even as she grabs a handful of his shirt and flashes her eyes at him.

"Who are you? And how do you know all that?" she growls.

"It's kind of hard to explain." he admits.

"Try." she grits through her teeth.

Stiles licks his lips. "You know how a lot of weird supernatural things go down in this town?"

Malia considers this for a moment, then reluctantly nods.

"Well, something like that happened to me. And now it's like I've been erased. No one remembers me."

Malia tilts her head, listening to the pace of his heart for a moment. Then she releases his shirt and her searing blue eyes fade back into a rich caramel brown. "You aren't lying." she asserts, stepping back from him. But her eyes are still far from friendly.

He's running out of time. _The wild hunt rides in the darkest hours_. And it's nearly midnight.

Malia shifts back on her heels. "If you're in trouble with something supernatural. Then I know some people who can help you." she offers.

Stiles gives her a sad smile. "It's too late for that." he whispers. "I just needed to see you one last time."

Malia tilts her head, her eyes softening. "How did you know all that stuff about me?"

His mouth does dry. "I uh...I used to be your boyfriend."

Her eyelashes flutter at that, confused.

"I don't have a lot of time, here. And there's something I just need you to know." Stiles clears his throat. _It's now or never, Stilinski._

"I-I love you." he whispers shakily. "I should have told you. I should have told you hundreds of times and I never did." He says, regretfully. "And I'm sorry for how I acted. I pushed you away when all you were trying to do was help me. I should have made thing right...I should've fought for you when I had the chance. I was an idiot and I'm sorry. And I know it doesn't mean anything now but—I just wanted you to know that you deserved better from me." He says, holding her eyes. _He needed to tell her to her face...even if it only just this once._ He prays that somewhere deep down she hears him.

Malia is watching him, and there is a gentleness in her eyes that makes him ache. But she doesn't know him anymore. Tears prickle in his eyes and he swallows hard, dropping his head. Being a werecoyote makes her sensitive to emotions. She can sense his anguish and it pulls at an instinct within her. She tentatively reaches up and lifts his chin. And his breath catches in his throat.

"Hey, It's gonna be O.K." she soothes, "We're gonna figure this out."

A thrill courses through him at her gentle touch. He's hyper-aware of her close proximity, he closes his eyes and leans into her touch. He hasn't kissed her in months. He's not her first kiss, not anymore...some other guy is going to take his place. And the thought gnaws at something deep inside him. And he just can't let it go.

So he ducks his head and steals a kiss. It's a hot artless press of lips, just like their first one had been, except this time she's the one who's surprised by it. But she doesn't pull away, she kisses him back with that same curious hunger, he remembers. Stiles brushes his nose softly against hers.

"You, were my one good thought." he tells her. "And you always will be."

Malia leans away, her eyes dark, and so focused on him. "Who are you?" she wonders aloud.

Stiles is still holding her face in his hands, his thumbs flashing out to stroke her jaw, as he fumbles for words.

"I'm—"

"STILES!"

His head jerks toward Lydia's frantic voice, he catches sight of her racing toward them.

"STILES! THERE COMING!"

Malia cocks her head to the side, "Lydia?"

Stiles turns back to Malia and swallows hard.

Her dark eyes are muddled with confusion, "Whose coming?"

His eyes dart between Malia and Lydia's approaching form. Knowing that the clock has finally run out, Stiles reaches for Malia's hands and pulls her close.

"Soon you're gonna forget all about this—all about me," he tells her urgently, his eyes searching hers. "And I—uh I don't k-know what there gonna do to Me." he admits, his voice unsteady, "But whatever happens, I'm gonna hang onto this moment with you for as long as I can." He promises her, as he presses a kiss to her forehead.

"I know you think we saved you when we found you in the woods that day." He mumbles against her forehead. "But the truth is _you_ saved me, Malia Tate."

He pulls back, and reaches out to brush a hand down her cheek. Malia looks so conflicted, her eyes searching his. He can tells she's struggling to say something, but whatever it is she's unable to get it passed her throat. But her hands are gripping his almost painfully tight, as if she's willing herself to remember him.

Lydia reaches them and grabs onto his shoulder.

"There here! We need to move now." she commands, nearly breathless.

Stiles gives Malia a pained expression, and nods jerkily to Lydia. He reluctantly lets go of Malia's hands, but her hands cling to him, catching his wrists. He lifts his head to look at her and he suddenly can't run for his life…he just wants to stay right here down to the last second.

"You can't stay with her, we can't let _them_ see her." Lydia urges him.

Lydia's right…she's always right. So he lets Lydia drag him backward away from her. He stumbles over his own feet as he struggles to keep his eyes on Malia for as long as possible before he has to turn away and run across the dark field. Drawing the ghost riders as far away from her as possible.


	4. Tick-Tock

He's not sure if it's been days or weeks since he's been taken. Time is a very hard thing to keep track of here. Which is ironic, considering the most prominent feature of this old train station is a gargantuan antique clock which, hangs above the ticket booth. The clock face is caked in filth, and for as long as he's been here, the hour hand has never moved. But the minute hand frantically clicks back and forth as if it were a pendulum.

Stiles rubs at the back of his skull. He's had a headache for as long as he can remember. If he has to listen to anymore ticking from that broken clock…he thinks he might snap. And that would be bad because right now he doesn't need to give the ghost riders any excuse to single him out. So he keeps still. He's hidden among the rows of passengers that are sitting stalk still…practically asleep. Except for him—he has a plan, one that he's been working out for as long as he can remember.

Hours and minutes might be hard to pin down here but this place still keeps to a pattern. One that he's thinks he might have finally cracked. Stiles licks his lips, he feels like he's been thirsty for forever. Every time the ghost riders bring in their new captives, people start disappearing from the last three rows. It happens quick as a flash, almost instantaneously. If he can make it to the back three rows right as the riders return…he might just have a chance to figure out where these passengers are disappearing to. A niggling thought in the back of his head warns him that he hasn't thought this through completely. What if these passengers aren't going somewhere else…what if they are just finally fading away?

His thoughts feels sluggish, as if every second he's fighting against being dragged into the same undertow of mindlessness as everyone else. Maybe this is a terrible plan. But it's all he has. And he knows one thing for certain, he can't stay here one second longer.

His hands curl into fists around the edge of the bench. Stiles grimaces, as he feels dust and grit beneath his fingers. Everything here is covered in dust and _sand_ which is inexplicable, because there isn't a single window or door to the outside world. But it's everywhere. The slight draft in the train station stirs it up in the air. He's sick of breathing it in. He's tired of hearing it rasp beneath his shoes when he walks.

Hooves echo hollowly on the stone floor, and his eyes flick up to watch as a dark clad, grey-skinned, rider stalks past. It's the thirteenth time that rider has circled the station. _He's been counting._ And this place keeps to a tight pattern, any second now the wild hunt will be returning with fresh captives. His eyes dart to the mouth of the train tunnel. He can hear the whistle of wind, and then distantly the clatter of hooves.

He launches to his feet and runs for the back row. He can already see the murky green light start to envelop the passengers sitting on the back benches. Stiles makes it before the passengers start disappearing. He plants himself firmly on the bench just as he sees the first of the ghost riders pass through the tunnel. He watches them carefully hoping he was fast enough not to have been detected.

The first ghost rider cuts the bonds of his captive and tosses them down on the concrete. They rise up on wobbly legs, and stare at the ghost rider. Stiles cocks his head, in curiosity. He's never seen that happen before. People are always disoriented when they arrive, they don't even seem aware of the ghost riders. But this person is glaring openly at their captor. The ghost rider seems to notice, and knocks them down with a sharp kick. The captive falls to their side. The person next to Stiles starts to flicker then disappears.

Stiles starts to feel a strange weightless sensation and his vision starts to blur...but then he sees a flash of dark hair and electric blue eyes.

Stiles leaps off the bench at the last possible second, before he is sucked into the murky green light. He stares across the train station at the girl on the concrete floor.

"M-Malia?" he whispers, hoarsely.

Malia rises to a knee and clutches her side, her eyes glinting with anger. The ghost rider towers over her, its empty eye-sockets locked on her face. Malia snarls in her throat and refuses to drop her eyes. The ghost rider's horse snorts and paws at the stone floor, while its rider remains eerily still. Malia winces holding her side, as she climbs to her feet, her eyes never leaving the ghost rider. The ghost rider uncoils its whip.

Stiles feels his stomach tighten. _She needs to back down_ — _now_. Stiles bolts behind one of the train station's large stone pillars and edges his way toward her. There's a flurry of people scurrying away from the mouth of the train tunnel, as the rest of ghost riders herd them deeper into the station. Stiles slides behind the pillar only a few feet away from Malia.

As the ghost riders drive the people further into the station, Malia gets swallowed up in the sea of people. People knock into her and she's forced along with the crowd, her eyes finally breaking away from her stand-off with the ghost rider.

When she's within reach Stiles catches her arm, and drags her behind the stone pillar. She tenses up, resisting his grip, until he spins her toward him and presses her up against the pillar. Her dark caramel brown eyes light with recognition, and it knocks the wind out of him—it's the single most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

Her lips part to speak, but Stiles quickly presses a finger to her lips, shaking his head. On the other side of the pillar a ghost rider's horse snorts fiercely. As soundlessly as possibly he slides his finger down off her full lips, and keeps as still as possible. The horse stamps its feet, restlessly. Malia's dark eyes never leave him. Her warm breath ghosting over his clammy skin. Stiles struggles to take slow measured breaths. But being pressed up against her like this, having to hold his head only a scant few inches from her lips, has his heart pumping at full steam. His ears are filled with the sound of his own ragged breathing.

The horse shuffles on the other side of the pillar. Then with a loud snort, the hooves loudly clomp away. When the ghost rider sounds to be far enough away, Stiles sucks in a relieved breath. He presses his forehead against the cool stone of the pillar for just a second. Then he quickly grabs Malia's hand and pulls her into the shadows of another pillar. They skirt along the stone wall, sticking to the shadows, until Stiles tucks her into an alcove. His hands skim along the wall, searching for something. His hand catches on a doorknob, which he quietly twists and ushers her inside a dimly lit room.

CHAPTER FIVE COMING SOON...

* * *

 **Author's Note: This scene has been in my head since I first saw the trailer. This next chapter is the reason I wrote the Darkest Hours. Sorry its taken me so long I've been trying to finish my other projects first. But since it looks like 'the wrong person' is going to be meeting Stiles at the station I've been spurred to action to try and complete this chapter asap. P.S Merry Christmas, Happy 2017**


	5. Shelter From the Storm

As soon as he turns away from the door, Malia crashes into him, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck. Her speed forces him off balance and he stumbles back half a step as he catches her. She presses her face into his shoulder, fisting her hands in his shirt. Stiles gusts a breath of relief into her hair. His hands slide up her back, one arm twining around her shoulders, and the other around her middle. It's a desperate, crushing hug and Stiles can hardly breathe. But he refuses to let go—if anything his arms tighten around her.

He revels in the warmth and reality of her in his arms. He trails his hand up her neck, to tangle his fingers in the cool silk of her hair. He nuzzles into her, inhaling the fresh, faintly sweet fragrance of hair. _It's like raindrops in the woods._ Stiles doesn't pretend to love the forest, but he's infatuated with how the scent of it clings to her skin.

"S-Stiles," she mumbles, into his shirt. Her warm breath bleeds through the fabric of his shirt, heating his skin.

Stiles shivers, drawing back from her a fraction of an inch.

"How did you…?"

Malia reluctantly disentangles one of her arms. Reaching into her leather jacket, she produces a set of keys, and dangles them out to him.

"You slipped these into my pocket the night you disappeared."

Stiles reaches out and takes his keys from her, feeling the reassuring weight of them in the palm of his hand.

"You found the Jeep," he grins. "I wasn't sure if would still be there or if it would just fade away like everything else."

"It was right in front of us the whole time. It just took us a while to figure it out. And even when we did…I didn't want to believe it was real." she admits, unable to meet his eyes. "I shoved the keys in my desk drawer and tried to forget about them. But they just wouldn't go away. I kept finding them everywhere…in my jacket pocket…under my pillow…on the kitchen table. Even when we found the Jeep, I didn't want to believe it—that I'd lost another person. Someone I that I couldn't even remember."

Stiles hooks a knuckle under her chin, tilting her head up. His eyes warm and reassuring.

"What changed?" he asks, softly, dropping his hand.

"I started having these really vivid… _dreams_ about you." she admits, looking slightly uncomfortable. Stiles shifts on his feet, feeling slightly apprehensive. Malia wasn't afraid of much, so seeing her react like this was enough to make him nervous.

"Like nightmares?"

Malia shakes her head. "No, they were dreams."

Stiles shrugs his shoulder in confusion, "…OK?"

"They were about us… _together_ ," she says, a blush creeping up her neck.

Stiles arches an eyebrow, biting at his lip to conceal his smirk "Oh, yeah?" he asks, his tone light, teasing.

Malia smacks his arm, "Shut up, Stilinski. It's not like they were all like that." she dismisses.

"Yeah, but a lot of them were." he deduces. "Otherwise, you wouldn't have brought it up." he says, flashing her a grin.

Malia pushes her tongue into her cheek and chooses to ignore him. "I started to recognize things from the dreams," she presses on. "Like the Jeep, and your keys, and the shirt you left at my house from-uh…from back before we broke up. So we took another look at the jeep. Scott found one of the clues you left and we followed them until we started to remember you."

"My dad?" he asks, hopefully.

"He misses you." she assures, softly. Stiles sighs in relief. "Which reminds me…" Malia reaches into the pocket of her jeans and pulls out a small brass police whistle. "He wanted me to give you this." she says, pressing it into his hand.

Stiles stares down at the metal whistle in his hand. His eyes flit back to hers.

"Thanks," he says, his voice rough with emotion. Then his mind latches onto something, that doesn't add up. Stiles blinks rapidly, confused. "Wait. How did my dad know you were gonna see me?"

Malia smirks and shrugs off her jacket. "You didn't think they actually _caught_ me, did you?" she asks, smugly with a flick of her hair.

Malia moves further into the dusty room. Crouching down she smooths her jacket out on the floor. Flicking out her claws she carefully dissects the lining of her jacket. Parting the jacket lining she reaches in and pulls out a long, thin coil of insulated copper wire.

"They didn't catch me, Stilinski." She tosses the coil of wire to him. Stiles catches it, his eyes darting over it before landing back on her. "This is a rescue," she says, with a grin.

 _There's a way out?_

His hands starts shaking, and he unconsciously tightens his fingers around the length of wire in his hand. Something he hasn't felt in so many days, stirs in his chest, rising up from somewhere deep inside him… _hope_. And it's so powerful it knocks the wind right out of him.

Malia lifts her head, quirking her eyebrow at him. "Stiles…?" she asks, concern coloring her tone, as she moves to his side. She reaches out and tugs gently on his sleeve. "Hey—hey, you've gotta breathe."

Stiles refocuses on her, nodding his head, and taking in shallow shaky breaths as tears sting at the corner of his eyes. "Yeah," he says, thickly, "I just, uh, I started to think that I was…that I was n-never…" he trails off dropping his chin, and shaking his head, struggling to keep it together.

She slides her fingers down off of his sleeve, and catches the hand dangling at his side. She steps into him, and squeezes his hand.

"Hey," Malia whispers, as she bends her knees trying to get him to meet her eyes. "I am never gonna let that happen. We don't leave each other behind, remember?"

His shoulders rise and fall as his breathing evens out, he slowly lifts his head, his eyes meeting hers. "I remember," Stiles whispers. "I just wasn't sure that you'd ever be able to."

"Yeah, well, you leave a pretty big impression, Stilinski," she says, nudging him gently in the ribs, trying to earn a smile from him. "Even the ghost riders, couldn't make us forget you for long." Stiles twists away slightly, as her thumb catches on a particularly ticklish spot. He brushes the back of his arm across his face, drying his eyes. The corner of his mouth flitting upward, as his eyes meet hers again.

"C'mon," she urges, tugging gently on his hand. "I've got something to show you." He lets her lead him further into the dusty old room, but he drags his feet. He's in no rush for her to let go of his hand.

He had stumbled upon this room not long after he'd been captured, and has been sneaking off here as often as he can without drawing suspicion. He's scoured through every inch of this place, in the hopes of finding something useful. And from what he can tell, this had once been a records room.

A thin pool of light spills down through a grate in the ceiling, casting shadows throughout the room. Rows of old-fashioned wooden filing cabinets stand along the walls, coated in dust. While the rest of the space is taken up by a myriad of objects. An antique writing desk, stacks of old newsprint, gas lanterns, a few coal buckets, broken railway benches, steamer trunks, thick wooden crates, a few bedraggled chairs, and a tufted leather couch.

Being able to take refuge here, from dreadful ticking of that clock, and the rows of lifeless passengers, is probably all that's kept him sane. It had been his shelter from the storm. A quiet place where he could hear himself think. Where he could figure out a plan to escape. He's used up almost all the coal in the rusted out buckets, by now. His slanted scrawl covering so much of the walls that it's has started spilling down into patches on the floor. He's written down everything he's learned, anything that might give him the advantage to escape.

Stiles looks down at their entwined fingers. Her hands are so much smaller than his. He'd almost forgotten how this felt…being close to her like this. _How is she even real?_ He wonders. He's thought about her so much in this room, it's hard to wrap his mind around the fact that she's actually here with him.

Malia maneuvers around in the half-light of the crowded room with more ease than he ever could. Scooping her leather jacket up from the floor, she moves under the faint pool of light, and throws it down on an old steamer trunk. She lets go of his hand, reaching down to spread out her jacket, and gestures for him to come closer.

Stiles leans over the steamer trunk, squinting down at her jacket. His breath hitches as words start appearing on the inside of it. As his eyes adjust to light, he sees that several little blurbs have been inscribed on the lining in silver permanent marker. Scott, his Dad, Lydia, Melissa, Deaton, even Liam, Hayden and Mason have written to him. His finger traces over their words. Stiles swallows the lump in his throat. _They remember him._

"Each of them would be here if they could," she assures. "But _the plan_ wouldn't work if they were, we need them on the other-side."

Suddenly, all the hope welling up inside him starts to fade, as dread seeps into his belly. His eyes dart over the walls of the records room. He's been trapped with the ghost riders for who knows how long... _If there was a way out, he would have found it by now._ Maybe all the clues he's left his friends has just led Malia into a trap. Maybe he's just doomed her into wasting away here like the rest of them. And maybe everyone else he loves is next.

CHAPTER SIX COMING SOON...


	6. What Holds Me Together

Stiles shakes his head violently, backing away from Malia and the steamer trunk. The coil of wire he'd been clenching in his hand slips through his fingers, and rolls across the stone floor. Stiles runs his hands through his hair, then drags them both down to cover his face.

"No—no you shouldn't be here." he mumbles over and over into his hands.

Malia's eyes widen as she watches him, as he grips his hair and mutters to himself. She approaches him cautiously as she would a wounded animal.

"Stiles…?" she asks tentatively, as she reaches out touching his elbow. He jolts slightly, startled by her feather-light touch. His hands slide down off the sides of his face.

"Y-you shouldn't be here." he chatters, wringing his hands, as his eyes flit distractedly over the notes he'd written all over the walls in charcoal. Malia follows his line of sight. She bites her lip, her heart sinking as her eyes land on a series of lines that he'd etched into the wall. It looked as though he'd been struggling to keep a crude record of how long he's been trapped.

Her eyes dart back to him. "Hey, it's gonna be OK." she insists, moving between him and the wall, trying to break his focus.

Stiles suddenly grabs onto her, his fingers biting into her shoulders. "Don't you get it?" he demands roughly shaking her, "There's no way out of here. I-I've tried everything. The ghost riders don't have any weaknesses. The boundary is pure energy— _there's no getting across_! You're trapped here and it's my fault!"

Stiles clenches his eyes shut, as his skull violently throbs. His thoughts quickly spiraling out of control. He's trapped her here. He can't stand to watch what this place will do to her. He's barely managed to keep it together, but he's been able to keep himself busy, clawing for answers like he always has. But if she's trapped here behind these stone walls, away from the forest and the sky, Malia will wither and withdraw into herself just like everyone else here. And he can't let that happen. _He won't let it happen!_ He hangs his head, his hands sliding down off her shoulders, all of him suddenly quaking with exhaustion.

"Stiles, hey, look at me, alright?" she urges, catching his face in her hands. He lifts his face toward her voice, prying open his bleary eyes to look at her. Malia stares at him steadily, griping his face in her hands, "I'm gonna get you out of here." she promises him. "You've been stuck here for six months, practically alone and I know you're tired," she soothes, her thumbs stroking his jaw. His eyes unconsciously flutter, at her gentle touch. "You just need to hang on for a little while longer, OK?" she pleads. "Deaton's found a way through the boundary. We're going to get everyone through. But I'm gonna need your help. Can you do that for me?"

Stiles slowly exhales and nods to her. The way she's looking at him, makes him feel steadier. They stare at each other until she drops her eyes and slowly slides her hands down off his face, stepping back. It takes all of his strength not to reach for her, and pull her back into his space.

He pulls his mouth into a tight smile. He's still a little breathless when he asks, "Since when did you get so good at talking?"

Her lip quirks at the corner of her mouth, "My ex-boyfriend never shut up. I guess I picked up on a few things." She says, her tone light and teasing.

Stiles lets out a short raspy laugh. Malia leans down and picks up the coil of wire he dropped, and moves back over toward her jacket. After a moment when he feels a little steadier on his feet he follows her. He finds her pulling something from the inner lining of her jacket. He watches curiously as she takes out three more coils of copper wire, a compact crossbow, three arrows, and a thick set of industrial rubber gloves. Malia unrolls the rubber gloves, reaching inside one she pulls out a small digital track stopwatch. She peers down at if for a moment, looking as though she's figuring something out in her head.

Stiles arches an eyebrow, "What's that for?"

"This is how we'll know when to make our move." she says, sounding slightly distracted as she sets the stopwatch. Then she tosses it at him. Stiles catches it in his fist, then blinks down at it curiously. Then he lifts his head to look at her when he notices the length of time it's been set for.

"What happens in three hours?" he asks, confused.

"It's when the pack will be ready on their end, and by that time we need to have our part done." she tells him, as she picks up one of the coils of wire and flicks out her claws. She draws one of her claws down the rubber sheath, cutting it free from the wire.

Stiles licks his lips, settling his hands on his hips. "What do we need to do?" he asks, feeling more like himself than he has in a long time.

"You know the big one that was eyeing me earlier?" she asks, tearing off a strip of rubber sheathing. Stiles nods. "Well, according to Deaton, that's Wodan. He's the one in charge. You and I are going to steal his rope."

Stiles scrunches up his forehead. "And why would we risk pissing off a ghost rider?"

Malia tilts her head, looking a bit amused.

"What?" Stiles shrugs.

"Nothing…I'm just enjoying the fact that you haven't figured it out yet."

Stiles shakes his head, "Figured out what?"

"The ghost riders, they're immune to the lightning but regular people aren't."

Stiles nods, "Yeah…so"

"So how do the ghost riders take people through the lightning and then through the boundary without actually killing them?"

Stiles scratches at his brow, "Er...I actually have no idea." he admits.

"I'll give you a hint, it's the same reason they cut the ropes off your wrists the second they get you through the boundary."

Stiles lowers his head, his eyes moving rapidly as realization dawns on him. "The ropes—they're to protect us."

Malia tilts her head and gives him a self-satisfied grin. "Deaton says the rope is woven from a special type of ivy, and when it's bound to someone it can protect them when they pass through the boundary. But if we could run the rope through the boundary, we could make a bridge to the other side and we could get everyone out."

"What are we gonna do about the ghost riders?"

Malia holds up a coil of wire. "That's what the polarized copper wire is for." She says, offering it to him. "Here," she says slicing into the rubber sheathing for him. "We need to get all of this off before we can use it." she instructs.

Malia hunkers down on the floor, sitting cross legged and begins working the rubber free from her own length of wire. Stiles joins her on the floor, and jams his thumb between the wire and the rubber sheath and starts prying it off. Malia's eyes flit up to look at him.

"It's gonna work, Stiles." she says, softly. His hands falter on the wire, as he gets a little lost in her deep caramel brown eyes. Stiles clears his throat, giving her a nod.

"OK." he says, his voice sounding stronger even to his own ears, "I think you'd better walk me through the whole plan."

* * *

About half an hour later everything is set. They're both standing over the steamer trunk repacking Malia's jacket with everything they'll need. Malia's running him through the plan, for the third time. When she shoves the last coil of wire into her jacket, she lifts her head notices the way he's staring at her.

"What?" she asks, as she shrugs on her jacket. "Why do you keep looking at me like that?"

Stiles blinks, realizing that he'd been staring. "Uh…how am I looking at you?"

Malia narrows her eyes. "Like I've got all your attention. But you haven't heard a word I've said."

Stiles drops his eyes, shrugging sheepishly. "Sorry, I guess I'm a little distracted."

Malia rolls her eyes at him. "You're such a guy. So, I had a couple hot dreams about you, get over it."

Stiles chuckles, shaking his head. "It's, uh, it's not about that."

Malia lifts her shoulder, and waits expectantly. Stiles clears his throat. "The last time I saw you, you were staring at me like I was this stranger. And the way you're looking at me now…" Stiles trails off licking his lips. "It's, uh, it's been a really long time since anyone's looked at me like that."

Malia takes a shallow breath. "Like what?"

"Like you know me," he rasps, "Like you care…" he trails off tilting his head towards her.

Malia ducks her head, her neck flushing. "We should, uh, we should really get out there." She says avoiding his eyes, as she zips up her jacket. Stiles bites his lip, silently cursing himself as she moves away from him toward the door.

The only thing Malia runs from, is her feelings. _He'd hurt her._ She's too proud to admit it, but he knows he did. That's why even after they'd started to talk again she'd never let him get too close. That's why for so long after the breakup he hadn't pushed. He'd felt like he had to earn back some of her trust before he could.

Stiles sniffs, pushing down the aching feeling in his chest as he follows after her.

"Ready for this?" she asks stiffly as he falls into step beside her. Stiles doesn't meet her eyes, just nods. Malia reaches for the door, but her hand tenses at the last minute. "Wait." She says, spinning around to face him. "Before we go out there, I need to ask you something."

Stiles lifts his head meeting her eyes. "That night," she forces out, her voice thick. "I'm the only one you _really_ , tried to talk to, why?"

Stiles stares at her, his eyes completely unguarded as he whispers, "You know why..."

TO BE CONTINUED...


	7. Scar Tissue

Malia's eyebrows squeeze together. "No! You don't just get to do that," she growls, lifting her chin. "I didn't ask for any of this! I was doing just fine on my own—then you came barreling into my woods with some half-assed plan acting like you're gonna save me." Her mouth flattens into a grim line, her voice rising with her anger, "You dragged me away from my home, forced me relearn all of this _pointless_ confusing crap!"

Malia jabs a finger toward herself, "I _didn't_ get to run away," she spits bitterly. "You made me _talk_ things out—you made me _feel_ things! And then when things get hard, when things get confusing for you, you just get to walk away? It's OK for _you_ to stop talking?" she snaps, her eyes burning.

Stiles lowers his head and swallows hard, "No. It wasn't OK."

Malia blows out a breath, dropping her eyes. "You had months to talk to me, Stiles." she says, with less bite. "Months to tell me how you felt. So why did you tell me on the one night that I couldn't even remember you?" she asks, with pain shimmering in those dark, deep eyes.

Stiles lifts his head, "After the nogitsune...you, uh, you were the only person left in my world that I hadn't hurt. And when we started this," he says, gesturing back and forth between them. "I promised myself that I was never gonna hurt you." He drops his eyes, "But I did. And it wasn't some dark spirit that was forcing my hand, it was me _, I_ hurt you."

"And I couldn't take that I did that to you." he shakes his head ruefully, "I didn't trust myself enough to try and get close to you again."

"Then that night, they were coming for me, and you didn't remember me…but I remembered everything. And I had to tell you—I had to try, because, Malia, I am _so_ damn in love with you. And I had to say it…just once."

Something flickers through her eyes, and he can barely distinguish what it is before she takes a step into him, twisting her fingers in the front of his t-shirt, anchoring him to her. Malia bows her head, refusing to meet his eyes. Stiles stays quiet, but he can't help leaning into her. She shakes her head as he does, her breathing growing ragged. The hand she has curled in the front of his shirt starts, trembling.

Stiles lowers his head, pressing his forehead to hers, "I'm sorry," he whispers, thickly.

Malia tilts her head up, brushing her lips softly against his. A jolt rocks all the way through him. Nothing could prepare him for the heat of her mouth. A small sound escapes him, as his hands clutch at the small of her back, his fingers biting into the smooth leather of her jacket. _She must've felt it too._ Because the stopwatch that she'd been clutching in her other hand, suddenly clatters to the ground.

She reaches for him, griping the back of his neck, as she kisses him more intently. The hand she has tangled in his shirt, unclenches and slides up his chest. She cups his jaw, angling his head, to kiss him deeper. His hands skate up her back, and delve through her hair, cradling the back of her head as he sinks into the kiss. She tastes wild and pure like raindrops on his tongue.

His thumb rubs circles behind her ear, as the kiss levels out. Malia draws back softly gasping for air. She stays close, clutching his shoulders, her ragged breathing mingling with his own. Stiles stares at her intently, as he catches his breath.

Her hands slide down off his shoulders. She grips the collar of his unbuttoned plaid shirt and presses her mouth to his. Stiles steps into her, slanting his mouth hotly against hers.

Malia snakes a hand between them, unzipping her jacket. Stiles pushes it down her shoulders, and it slithers off her arms, dropping to the floor. Malia walks him blindly into one of the old wooden filing cabinets. His back knocks against it, sending up a cloud of dust as she presses him up against it. Her teeth tug, enticingly at his bottom lip, and Stiles groans into her mouth. She breaks away from his mouth with a grin, her eyes are warm, glinting with just a hint of mischief as she stares up at him. Then she steals into his space, slanting toward his mouth. Stiles tips his head back, parting his lips in anticipation. But Malia just skims her bottom lip over his top lip teasingly, and then ducks away. Stiles lets out a quiet huff of laughter, catching onto her game. She whispers a few light teasing kisses over his lips, dodging any attempt he makes to deepen it. Stiles rolls his eyes at her, but Malia just wets her lips, grinning like a coyote.

His hands settle low on her hips. He raises a mocking eyebrow at her when her eyes involuntarily flutter, as he skims his fingers beneath her sweater. Stiles spins them, pressing her up against filing cabinet. He leans into her, dropping his head into the crook of her neck. She twists slightly, gripping his shoulder as he slowly draws his nose up the column of her neck. Then he tilts his head, dragging his lips against her skin, scattering hot kisses down her throat. Coming to her collarbone, he noses her sweater down off one shoulder. He trails his lips down the slope of her shoulder, murmuring sweat words into her skin.

Malia's head falls back against the cabinet and she growls low in her throat. Stiles flashes a glint of teeth against her shoulder. He didn't think he would ever get to see her again…much less earn that sound from her. He presses a soft kiss the to the sensitive skin of her shoulder, before tracking his way back up her neck.

Stiles nuzzles along the shell of her ear, "I missed you," he whispers.

Malia gasps, peeling his plaid shirt off his shoulders and down his arms. Stiles lets go of her reluctantly, shaking the shirt down off his wrists. Malia twines her leg around his calf, and slides her clever hands beneath his t-shirt, raking her dull nails down his back. His eyes lose focus, and his breath stutters.

Malia tugs at the hem of his t-shirt. "Off." She demands, impatiently.

His eyes snap open, "Off. Definitely, off." he agrees, stepping back and shrugging it over his head and tossing it aside.

Her eyes slide appreciatively over the lean muscles of his chest, until something shifts in her eyes. She straightens up against the filing cabinet the heat bleeding from her eyes as they grow cool and sober.

Stiles licks his lips, "Er, Malia?" he asks wondering if logic had finally caught up with her. It looks as though she's in a daze, staring right through him. His stomach, twists in knots. He knows that they both probably have the worst concept of time and place in the world. _But please don't be regretting this._ He pleads.

Then she breaks out of her stillness, and reaches out to trace her finger over the scar beneath his collarbone. It was a small raised scar close to his heart, it was healed but it was still _fresh_ only about eight months old. He'd been impaled on a shard of glass, trying to protect her from the desert wolf.

Stiles is about to tell her that it doesn't hurt that its scar tissue and he actually can't feel it. But then her thumb sweeps over the sensitive skin beneath the scar and he can't help but shudder. Malia drops her forehead onto his shoulder, and presses a kiss just above his scar. Stiles hisses, biting his lip.

"I love you too," she mumbles into his skin. Stiles steps back from her, catching her face in his hands, his eyes wide as he stares at her. Malia shrugs her shoulder, "How could you possibly not know that?"

Stiles lets out soft huff of laughter, brushing his thumb down her cheek as he smiles at her. Then he pulls her close, banding his arms around her. He tucks his face into the crook of her neck and breathes deep. She smells sweet and woodsy, like the grove of sycamore trees that grow near his house. He holds her close, unwilling to break away.

Malia drags his head up, and kisses him. It starts out soft and sweet. Then Malia's dull nails lightly scrape against his scalp, and her fingers twist in his hair. Stiles leans into the kiss practically purring. He inches his fingers beneath her sweater, and splays his hand possessively across the cool skin of her back. They stumble backwards kissing urgently, knocking into old relics and tripping over their own feet.

Malia jumps up, wrapping her legs around his waist. Stiles catches her, but is thrown off balance, and stumbles over a wooden crate. They careen down onto the old tufted leather couch.

" _Ooof!_ " Stiles grunts, when Malia lands on top of him. Malia laughs, grinning down at him. This couch is ancient, and there are three springs digging into his back, but the only thing that matters right now is the way she's looking at him. _How is she even real?_

Stiles frowns rising up on his elbows.

Her smile slips. "What is it?" she asks concerned. "What's wrong?"

"I don't want to close my eyes. I feel like you're gonna disappear." he whispers, anxiously.

Malia crosses her arms in front of herself and pulls her sweater over her head in one graceful move. Stiles sucks in a breath at the sight of her taut bare skin. She leans over him, her eyes smiling as she cups his face in her hands. "So don't close your eyes," she says, warmly, as her thumb traces his lower lip. Then she kisses him, and his hands tense on her back as he fights to keep his eyes open.

The couch is so narrow that there's only enough room for him and her, there's no room for doubt. A few kisses later, he finally lets go, and his eyes flutter closed. By that point, he's so caught up in the warm reality of her that he knows that this time she isn't a dream or a memory. This time, she won't slip through his fingers so easily. _Because he's not letting go._


	8. Twenty-Eight and a Half Minutes

Afterward, they linger for longer than they should on that old tufted leather couch. He had disentangled himself from her long enough, to shrug back on his plaid shirt, and reclaim the stopwatch from the floor. It dangles loosely from his free hand, as they steal a few more minutes together. Malia lays with her head cradled in the crook of his arm. She smiles contentedly, brushing her fingers back and forth along his arm. Stiles has his arms wrapped around her middle, his free hand laying entwined with hers across her abdomen. Their legs twined together. He can't stop himself from touching her. He keeps stroking between her fingers, and nuzzling into her hair. Pressing his lips to any patch of skin he can reach.

Malia lets out a soft sleepy sigh. "We should probably go soon."

"Mm-hmm," he hums distractedly, while his lips ghost over the bare skin of her back. Malia twists against him, laughing, gliding her toes along his calf.

"Your arm is going to fall asleep," she warns, half-heartedly.

His arms tighten around her. "I don't care." He whispers, as he nuzzles into her hair. Malia smirks, turning her head to brush a kiss against his bicep. He shifts against her, as her breath tickles his skin.

She tries to roll toward him, but nearly falls off the narrow couch. Stiles catches her drawing her up against him. She ends up all but sprawled on top of him, her chin resting on his chest. He gazes at her affectionately, as he cards his fingers through her hair. Malia dips her head, nosing his unbuttoned shirt aside, and lays a soft kiss beneath his scar.

"We should go," she whispers against his skin. Stiles turns his head, and gauges the stopwatch in his hand.

"In a minute," he agrees. She shivers as a draft whistles through the records room, skating along her back. Stiles rubs a hand across her skin, as he reaches down and snags her sweater from the floor. He slips it over her head, and tugs it down over her body. The warmth of the sweater, settles over her seeping into her skin. She sinks down, snuggling into his chest, her eyes fluttering closed for a few seconds.

"One more minute," she breathes out.

* * *

Twenty-eight and a half minutes later, they manage to peel themselves off the old leather couch. But even as they tug on their shoes and straighten their clothes, they can't seem to drag their eyes away from each other for long. Malia bends down to lace her shoes and Stiles tries to busy his fingers with buttoning his shirt, but his eyes involuntarily follow her.

She turns her head, catching him. His neck flushes, and his eyes dart away for a second, before flitting back to her, grinning crookedly. Malia chews on her lip, suppressing her amusement. She straightens up with a deliberate slowness, her eyes full of heat as they track over him. Stiles swallows thickly, his hands fumbling on the last button of his shirt. Then Malia lets out a small huff of laughter, and smirks at him.

"What?" he asks.

Laughter dances in her eyes as she steps into his space and slowly runs her finger down the buttons of his shirt. His heart speeds up embarrassingly fast.

"Nothing," she says, as she brushes past him with a chuckle. Stiles frowns looking down at himself to find that he'd mismatched all but two of the buttons on his shirt. He shakes his head at himself, unable to suppress a grin as he fixes his shirt.

Malia reclaims her jacket from the floor and shrugs it back on. As he finishes buttoning his shirt, he turns to look at her and catches her pulling her hair out from beneath the collar of her jacket. Her silky brown hair falling in waves around her shoulders as she rearranges it. His brain sort of shorts out for a few seconds, before snapping back to attention. _Everything she does is just…so damn distracting._

He checks the stopwatch and swallows hard. Time is winding down, he needs to focus. It's not like he isn't eager to be rid of this place. Every molecule in his body that isn't currently distracted by her proximity is screaming for him to grab her and make a run for the boundary. But it isn't that simple. This plan is dangerous…especially for her.

Malia is going to have to go up against three ghost riders by herself, with nothing but her powers and polarized copper wire. And that's _if_ the copper wire is even effective against them here. Wodan, the oldest and most powerful ghost rider carries the trifold rope on his belt. Without that rope they've no hope of getting across the boundary.

Even if they manage to get the trifold rope, it won't be the end of their problems. The boundary is dense and seemingly directionless, easy to get lost in. Finding the edge of it will be next to impossible, and they'll have only three chances at it. It's risky and all the odds seem stacked against them. But he knows Scott, his dad and Lydia are on the other side doing everything in their power to bring them home. They've faced down bad odds before. They can do it again.

"All set?" he asks, with a nervous lit to his voice.

Malia flashes him a grin as she zips up her jacket halfway, "Don't look so worried."

His jaw clenches, "Why would I worry? It's not like my girlfriend is about to throw down with half a dozen ghost riders," he says, wryly.

Malia bites her lip, and steps into his space. When Stiles avoids her eyes, she reaches out to gently tug on the front of his shirt.

"It's more like three," she teases, in a whisper.

Stiles lets out a quiet huff of laughter and presses his forehead to hers, "You're not helping," he says, exasperated. His hands slide up her arms, and trail down her shoulders until he's gripping the lapels of her jacket. He pulls her forward and kisses her in such a sweet and greed-less way. Malia sighs, and sinks into the kiss. One of his hands slips down off her lapel and grips the zipper of her jacket. He tugs the zipper the rest of the way up until his thumb is resting just beneath her chin. His thumb softly grazes her chin as he pulls away from the kiss.

"You're sure we've got everything?" he asks, a little breathlessly. Malia nods nudging his nose fondly.

"Copper wire?" he rumbles.

Malia takes his hand and settles it over her left side, so that he can feel the coils of copper wire through her jacket. "Right here,"

"Crossbow?"

"Here," she says, looking down as she draws other his hand up to cup her hip, so that his fingers will just graze over the crossbow concealed beneath. She tilts her head back up, her lips ghosting over his, as she stares at him beneath her lashes.

"Arrows?" he mutters, distractedly against her lips.

"Mmhm," she hums, as she guides his left hand down to the small of her back, where his hand settles possessively over the bundle of arrows.

Malia rises up on her toes and gives him a quick, firm kiss.

"C'mon, Stilinski," she urges, as she pulls back, "Let's go kick some ass."

TO BE CONTINUED...

* * *

 **Sorry for the short update. My computer is on its last leg and I lost most of what I had written for this chapter. I will rewrite it from memory and hopefully it will have been worth the wait. Also I'm sorry that I wasn't able to update last week when that horrible Stydia episode happened. I didn't watch it but understand it was horrible. Don't worry I'm going to finish this story and we can all pretend it's cannon and what happen on t.v. was just bad fanfiction ;)**


	9. The War Inside

Stiles nods stiffly. His hands slide down off of her reluctantly and he takes a step backward so that he can look at her properly.

"We're not gonna be able to talk once we're out there," he warns her, "And this place, the quiet it can get pretty intense. You need to keep your mind busy or else you'll start to go catatonic like everyone else here."

Her smile slips slightly, so that it no longer crinkles around her eyes. But she nods determined. "Tell me what I have to do."

"If you feel yourself drifting you need to hang onto a memory, something good, something that keeps you focused."

She lowers her head, her brows furrowed for a moment as she absorbs this. This will add to the already overwhelming odds against them. And he can already see the strain of this on her. She might feel strong enough to save him, but right now he can tell that she's starting to doubt that she's smart enough to.

He shifts closer, feeling protective. He hates that she does this to herself. He loves the way her mind works. She's one of the smartest people he's ever met. It's just that after eight years in the wild she's had to spend the last two years as a human playing catch-up. It's the only thing he's ever seen her be insecure about.

After a moment her eyes flit up to look at him. She shifts on her feet, "What was yours?" she asks in a small voice, "What kept you from drifting?"

It hadn't just been one thought that held him together. It had been a thousand thoughts, a thousand memories that he'd clung to, that had kept him alive. _His mom sitting him on her lap and letting him steer the jeep for the first time…his dad cheering for him in the lacrosse stands…Him and Scott shooting spitballs at Mr. Harris…His friends, all of them sitting around the lunch table, laughing._ But in his darkest hours there was always one memory that kept coming back to him.

Stiles gives her a small, shy smile and clears his throat, "Crickets." He answers gruffly.

Malia tilts her head, blinking up at him. "I don't, I don't understand."

He bites the inside of his cheek at the cute way her nose scrunches up when she's confused. He watches her with soft eyes as he reaches out to brush a lock of hair behind her ear.

He drops his hand, and clears his throat. "This one night it was, uh, past 2:00 a.m and I couldn't sleep." Stiles looks down, shoving his hands in his pockets, suddenly shy. "Then my window rolled up. And all I could hear was crickets as you slipped into my bed. You just laid there beside me, with your arm brushing up against mine, listening to crickets until we fell asleep. That was the first time since everything happened that my room felt _safe_." Stiles shrugs struggling to explain it. "I-It felt like I was finally… _home_."

Malia ducks her head, the tips of her ears reddening. She hides her face in his neck, and nuzzles into the collar of his shirt. "That's the first place I felt safe, to." she mutters, quietly against the fabric of his shirt. Pride swells in his chest. Malia pulls away just enough to look him in the eyes. "If things get bad out there, that's what I'll be thinking about."

Stiles presses a lingering kiss to her forehead."I'll be thinking about the last twenty-eight and a half minutes," he whispers against her skin. Malia shakes her head, smiling at him as she pulls back. Stiles flashes a grin and waggles his eyebrows. She swats him in the stomach and he groans, catching her small fist in his hand. "What?" he chuckles as he laces their fingers together. "You've given me a lot of good things to remember today," he teases.

Malia licks her lips and grips the front of his shirt. "When we get out of here, I'll give you something to remember," she promises, with a glint of heat in her eyes. His mouth goes dry as she smirks and lets go of his shirt.

Then she turns and struts over to the door, looking pleased with herself. She presses her ear to the door and listens. Stiles takes a breath and takes a second to run the plan over in his head one final time before he joins her at the door. She stays still listening for a moment before she lifts her head and nods.

"It's clear."

Stiles expels a breath and carefully pries open the door. They slip into the shadows and carefully skirt along the edge of the train station. They move at a quiet, calculated pace, never straying far from each other. Once they near the back rows of the railway benches, Stiles presses her up against one of the darkened pillars.

"Is this the part where you tell me to be careful?" she teases in a whisper.

Stiles shakes his head and reaches out to cup her cheek, "I love you," he says, rather earnestly before leaning in to kiss her achingly slow. Malia's hands slide up his back and her arms wrap around his neck. He pulls back abruptly, as if he has to force himself to. His eyes reluctant as he moves away. Then with a sigh he juts his chin toward the rows of railway benches, "Now," he whispers, gruffly "Go be a badass."

Malia catches the hand at his side and pushes the stopwatch into his palm. "I'll see you in twenty minutes, Stilinski." she promises, as she leans in to presses her forehead to his. "Don't you dare be late."

Then she slips out from between him and the pillar and steps into the light.


	10. When Time Winds Down

Stiles sits hunched forward, perched on the edge of his seat, his knee bouncing up and down, his fingers twisted together. Passengers sit motionless in the railway benches all around him, their glossy eyes staring blankly ahead. His head throbs in time with the ticking of that grimy old clock.

 _Tick-tock_

 _Tick-tock_

 _Tick-tock_

Stiles blows out a breath and straightens up, rubbing his clammy hands on the knees of his jeans. He glances up and four railway benches away he finds the back of Malia's head. If it weren't for the faint sting left from her nails on his back, Stiles might be convinced that she was just another hopeful figment of his imagination. He reaches into his pocket for what feels like the hundredth time and covertly checks the countdown.

(00:3:23.51)

 _It's almost time. Keep it together, Stiles._

Stiles sighs and furtively casts another glance at Malia. It's at once the best and worst feeling having her here with him in this place. The best because after months of being alone here with nothing but his regrets, he's finally knows down to his bones that she loves him and needs him just as much as he does her. And the worst because after having her all to himself for the last hour or so she's currently, frustratingly out of reach. Well, that and the prospect of a grisly death at the hand of ghost riders dangling over their heads. But mostly, it's because she's right there and he can't even touch her.

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek and shakes his head at himself. He really should be better at this. In all their time together he's always had to play the level headed one. He's always been the one to hit the brakes just when things start getting _interesting_ and remind her that she really needs to study. Or to step in and remind her that no matter how satisfying it would be, that it's probably not a good idea to punch coach. He's the one that's had to drag them out of bed early in the morning so they won't be late for school. Malia's always been the wild and reckless one. And he'd be lying if he said he didn't find that a serious turn-on.

He'd spent so much of their time together trying to reel her in and keep her from getting them into too much trouble. But he promises himself that if they live through this then he will happily let her lead him into all the trouble she wants.

The dim lights in the station start to flicker, and Stiles squints, his eyes darting around the room. The ghost rider's horses start tossing their heads, and braying. The eerily high-pitched sound makes the small hairs on the back of his neck stand up. There's a flash of lightning inside the station, and then all of a sudden Wodan is looming above him. Stiles grips the bench and tries to remain still. But the ghost rider seizes him by the neck and hauls him up from the bench. His legs thrash, his hands scrabbling over the inhuman hand that's clenched around throat. Wodan tilts it's head, its empty eye sockets focusing on the thin lanyard that dangles from, Stiles' pocket. Giving it an experimental tug the stopwatch pops out of Stiles' pocket and into the palm of the ghost-rider's hand.

The nightmarish creature chuffs and inspects the face of digital clock, confused. It just then that the timer winds down and lets out a blaring,

Beep-beep!

Beep-beep!

Beep-beep!

From somewhere behind him, Stiles hears a ferocious roar and before he knows what's happening he's being knocked from the ghost rider's grasp. He topples to the concrete floor, clawing in a painful breath. He blinks blearily up at the sight before him. Malia's on the creature's back, her claws driven into its shoulders, teeth bared, eyes on fire. The ghost rider staggers, swinging wildly reaching for her. Malia releases one hand and loops a length of copper wire around the creature's neck, winding it tightly. The ghost rider thrashes, but Malia just pulls the wire taunt. It scratches at its neck and slams Malia into one of the brick walls. Malia groans in pain but refuses to relinquish her hold. Stiles crawls to his feet and rushes for her.

Stiles skids to a stop a few feet from where Malia is wrestling Wodan, to the ground. Malia yanks hard on the wire around Wodan's throat with one hand and tears the trifold rope from his belt with the other.

"You know what to do!" She yells as she throws him the rope, and nudges her head back toward the railway bench. Stiles sees her black leather jacket slung over her seat. "Go! I'll buy you time." Horses bray and there's a thunder of hooves as a pair of ghost riders make for their position. His eyes dart between Malia and the jacket. Reading his hesitation, she shouts. "Stiles we only have one chance at this!"

Stiles grits his teeth, his hand clenching into a fist around the trifold rope as he fights against every instinct to stay with her, "Be careful!" He commands as he sprints for the jacket.

Malia cinches the wire tighter around Wodan's neck and the ghost rider falls limply to the ground, it's head severed clean off. Malia staggering to her feet, tripping on the body beneath her, out of breath.

"Now he says it," She mutters to herself as she wipes the blood from her mouth with the back of her hand. She watches as Stiles leaps over the bench and charges for the mouth of the train tunnel.

Two ghost riders jump down from their mounts, one of them unfurling its whip and bringing it down with a threatening crack, as they close in on her. Malia spits the blood from her mouth, and reaches down to grab the grisly coil of wire that's now dripping with thick black, supernatural blood.

As she straightens up, her eyes flash electric blue. "Alright boys, who's next?"


End file.
